


Irony, Not To Be Mistaken With Coincidence

by fourfreedoms



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, M/M, Pre-Series, whacky curses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-19
Updated: 2008-10-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 16:18:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourfreedoms/pseuds/fourfreedoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Spring Break, 2002 and Sam and Dean find themselves the butt of the "brother fucking" curse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irony, Not To Be Mistaken With Coincidence

On spring break of Sam’s senior year, Dad dragged them off to this crazy hunter commune thing in Weed, California. He needed something, he wouldn't explain what, from the people there, and he claimed it would be a good experience for the boys, so they packed their stuff and shoved themselves in the cars. 

Sam had not gone without protest. He’d had plans to go to Yellowstone National Park with his friends, because he was the sort of dork who amassed friends who wanted to look at nature rather than bare tits in Cancun. But he’d acquiesced after Dad had started laying out all the hunts they’d had to pass over to make sure that Sam could have a senior year in one place, and how many people were probably dead and mutilated and homeless as a result. Sam had felt guilty enough to give in.

The drive was hell. Sam rode with Dean, and he was silent and motionless and reading some stupid novel called _As We All Lay Dying_ , or something—perfect Sam material. He wouldn’t participate in a conversation. Every time Dean fiddled with the volume on the radio Sam turned it down without even taking his eyes of the page. He only spoke to tell Dean to quit chewing his snack cakes so loudly. 

They arrived on a Sunday to a circle of large cabins that could’ve been a summer camp if it weren’t for the mess of cars and artillery lying around. Weed was nice, the air was clear, and so far north that there was a bit of a bite to the wind. The amassed stockpile of weapons looked extremely out of place—like a group of militant skiers had decided to hole up and defend their god given right to lift tickets. Dad had said the group was quietly pretending to be a militia to escape closer government scrutiny, which Dean thought was probably the worst idea, because everybody knew those crazies were watched by the FBI like a horny thirteen year old peeping on the girl's locker room, just waiting for a towel to hit the floor and bare it all. 

The Winchesters got to stay at the main house, a three story—well not so much cabin anymore—that had been built by the founders of the commune. The rest of the of the little cabins looked barely bigger than outhouses. When Dean parked the car next to Dad's, Hank and Annie Bishop were already out on their porch, sawed-off shotguns in hand, looking like chewed up rawhide—brown as dirt and tough as nails. Dean didn't know what they had to worry about, but perhaps it was some bizarre militant skier ritual, greet the company like they've come to rob you.

Their daughter Cara, "tanning" in the yard that first Sunday morning in a tiny bikini instantly made herself a problem. She took one look at Dean and decided she was in love despite his less-than-amused grimace and her parents right over her shoulder. Sam thought it was hilarious, but then he would, that bitch. 

Cara insisted on fussing over him whenever they came back from short hunts, of which there were many. Weed was home to a rather surprising number of occult forces, but it was mostly small game, and the Bishops were proud to police their territory, even if the gravel sink-hole of a road leading up to their house was a bigger issue than most of the poltergeists they were dispatching. Dean would return only slightly bruised, a fingernail broken, or eyebrows a little singed and she’d chase him all around the house with Icyhot and Ace bandages. He tried hiding in the cedar closet which was big enough to fit a family, with a stench so powerful he was sure nobody would follow him, but Annie had packed it up with mothballs on top of that, and the two minute stay inside had nearly caused suffocation. 

Her parents watched her antics fondly when Dean really thought they should be locking her up in her bedroom and putting bars on the windows. Because if he’d been slightly more of an asshole, he might have taken advantage—she wasn’t unattractive. But Dean liked girls with some experience, and she was trying too hard, and she didn’t have any tits, _and_ any action would no doubt be accompanied by Sam's haunted “did you really?” expression. That face was kryptonite, a mood-killer for sure. 

So he dodged her. He did the best he could even when she came along and her interfering got him tossed into a tree. 

*

“How’s your shoulder?” Sam asked, sticking his head around the shower curtain, his hair curling from the humidity. 

Dean shouted over the noise of the shower. “It hurts, what do you fucking expect?” 

“Just being civil, Dean,” Sam snapped back, he pursed his lips and was just turning to leave when the door practically burst open. Dean shrank back in surprise. 

He could only just make out Sam’s outline against the curtain stumble as Cara thrust her way into the bathroom. “Sam! Where’s Dean?”

“Uh?” Sam started lamely. Dean silently prayed that his brother would hide his whereabouts. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with Cara while he was naked and injured. He’d probably get sexually assaulted. “I don’t know?” 

Dean silently thanked the heavens for Sam's unexpected mercy. 

“Why’s the shower on?” 

Dean could just _hear_ her hands on her hips. Brat. 

“Because…I wanted to take a shower?” Sam replied, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut, huddling as still as possible under the spray. This was going very badly. _Go away, Cara, go away_ he muttered over and over in his head, hoping that Sam’s pathetic poker face would carry them through it. 

“So...why are all your clothes on?” she pressed and Dean only just refrained from chucking a bottle shampoo up over the curtain rod at her. 

Sam was probably flushing and stumbling now, right on track to ruin the whole thing, but he seized the only open lie before him, with just enough confidence that it didn't sound totally implausible. “I just got here.” 

“But the showers been running for ten minutes, I heard the pipes.”

Dean heard Sam sigh, and he hunched back against the far wall waiting to be given up. Cara made a sound like she'd been pinched and then the curtain flew back just far enough for Sam to step under the spray. He was naked, pressing him backwards, before he could jump out and reach for a towel. 

“Wha—” he started, but Sam’s hand clapped over his mouth, eyebrows slanting down over his eyes. 

"Get out of the bathroom, Cara," Sam called, "before I tell your parents how inappropriate you're being." 

Dean rolled his eyes. Inappropriate. Like that threat would work in ten million billion years. But the door slammed open and closed, so he supposed Sam had somehow, mercifully, shocked her into leaving by actually taking his clothes off.

“You owe me so much,” Sam whispered furiously, pushing a hand through his now wet hair. “This is stupid. I had to undress in front of her!” 

Water ran in rivulets over his muscles, past the skin that had been steadily browning with each practice the soccer team had to where it paled, just under the delicate slash of his hip bones. Sam eyes snapped with annoyance, lips tight, completely unaware of Dean’s perusal. “Scared of Cara, Christ.” 

“Don’t congratulate yourself too much, fucktard.” Dean shoved him out of the way so he could be under the spray. “How are we going to get out of here now?”

Sam huffed, arms crossed. “You can climb out the window.” 

“First come, first serve,” Dean lathered shampoo into his hair. “Go sit on the toilet while I finish up here.” 

“What?” Sam protested and pushed him. “While I’m in here—” he started, but Dean elbowed him hard in the stomach, cutting off whatever he planned to say. Sam retaliated with another shove, and then they were grappling, tangling with each other. Sam was just pulling Dean into a headlock when he lost his footing on the slippery tile and they both keeled right over with a hard resounding thud, Dean on top of Sam. 

“Oh, yeah, they’ll never have noticed that,” Dean said while Sam busily tried to fill his lungs with air. He went to push himself up, but when he shifted against Sam, their dicks came in contact, sliding together against their bellies perfectly. 

Dean froze, muscles locked tight, while Sam stared up at him wide-eyed. They were both hard. “Uh—you—”

Dean blushed and scrambled off of Sam, leaping out the tub and through the door. He forgot a towel in his haste. 

*

Dean couldn’t look at Sam, Sam couldn’t look at Dean. Cara was watching them both with a sneaky shifty sort of triumph. Lord knew why, it wasn’t like she’d won anything. He came to the mortifying conclusion that she'd realized Dean had been in the shower all along. 

When Dad sent them both into town for some items he needed, Dean almost talked back—said he couldn’t do it or that he didn’t need Sammy to get the stuff with him, and it was like Dad could sense the words ready to burst out Dean’s mouth, because he shooed them off with a sharp “Go” and a pointed look at them both. 

Sam lounged in the passenger seat, thighs spread wide, his nylon basketball shorts riding up. It looked obscene, legally obscene. Dean wanted to hit his head against the steering wheel. Sam had probably sat like that thousands of times, it was the only way his legs fit in the foot well now that he’d gotten so tall. 

They pulled up to the grocery store and got out without talking. Dean had the list in his pocket and he really didn’t need Sam’s help. They were in the aisle that had all the spices, each intent upon cardamom and thyme, when this lady with a shopping cart overflowing with canned goods and two year olds, sped past at full tilt, ramming into Sam and knocking him off his feet. 

He fell into Dean, whose arms only just caught him on reflex. “Jesus, lady, watch where you’re going!” Dean shouted after her, while Sam tugged himself up Dean’s body to stand upright. They were plastered together chest to chest. Dean could feel Sam breathing. 

Dean looked at him, eyes wide, and then jumped away so fast he nearly tripped over an errant can. Sam brushed a hand over his face and turned back to the cart. “Uh, thank—”

“Don’t!” Dean interrupted. Sam looked back at him. “Er—mention it.” 

*

They went out with Dad, Hank, and Annie, and two other hunters, Aaron and Michael, to get an Alseid that had been furiously killing off day-trippers in the nearby forest. (Cara thankfully was on probation since the last time she’d totally screwed up what she was actually supposed to be doing and made Dean into a gigantic bruise rather than an adoring boyfriend.) Sam and Dean got cut off from the rest of the party when an implausibly large gust of wind hurled them up into the air, right over a hill and down into an abandoned mine shaft. 

They tumbled and slid down over rock while at least four logs came raining down after them blocking off the shaft. They were pressed so tightly together in the narrow space they could barely breathe, but at least their combined width was keeping them from falling further. 

“Ow, ow, ow,” Dean muttered, his body hurt everywhere. The skin of his palms felt like it had been sanded off and his cheekbone was one massive blossom of pain. 

“I think I can just—” Sam started, reaching up to grab the rock face like he could heave himself up past Dean. 

“Sam, stop struggling,” Dean told him, locking one arm around his waist. He tried valiantly to ignore the way Sam’s hip was grinding right into his dick. 

Sam ignored him. “If I just—”

“Sam!” Dean tried again. 

And Sam froze. “Dean,” he said slowly. “You’re hard.” 

“I know,” Dean replied, lacing as much annoyance into the sentence as he possibly could, huffing. “I _told_ you to stop struggling.” Sam blushed. Dean could feel the heat emanating off his cheeks, even if he could barely see it in the watery light filtering down the shaft. “Look, it doesn’t mean any—” Sam shifted against him again, brushing right over Dean’s stiffie and Dean had to suck in a lungful of air before he could continue. “Jesus, stop!” 

Sam sighed. “Sorry,” he leaned back into Dean’s arm like he was trying to get farther away, but that only forced their middles closer together, and Dean started to feel something hard against the muscle of his thigh. 

He dropped his head forward. “Christ, this is so embarrassing.” 

Sam cleared his throat. “It’s just friction.” 

“Whatever,” Dean snapped. “Just don't talk about it. Fuck, I’m losing circulation to my legs.” 

“Maybe if we just try to pull ourselves up,” Sam shrugged.

Dean blew out a breath. “Yeah, I uh...that sounds...good.” 

They struggled against each other, trying to get a hold on to the cave walls. Sam found some leverage and managed to lift himself up a little bit, right onto Dean’s dick. “No, Sam!” Dean shouted. “Bad touch!” 

“I can’t help it, man,” Sam replied, breathing hard, arms braced against the stone on either side of Dean’s head. 

Dean sighed and tried to twist his dick away from Sam’s hips but then Sam started making strangled noises of his own. “Jesus, I don’t know what to do.” Sam glared up at the cracks of sky he could see between the logs and then tried to climb up the wall with renewed vigor. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Dean breathed, throwing his head back against the rock face. 

Sam groaned, barely a whisper next to his ear, but he still heard it. Sam was flushed and breathing hard, biting on the full swell of his lower lip and moving his hip very purposefully against Dean. 

“Sam,” Dean tried weakly, but Sam had shifted to push the meat of his thigh against Dean’s dick, and words were lost. His breathing came out in sharp gasps, and somehow his hand had found Sam’s shoulder. They rubbed and thrust against each other completely without thought to the steep drop below their feet. 

Dean came first with his forehead resting on Sam’s shoulder. It just hit him all of a sudden, a white hot burning tug of orgasm, and then he was biting back Sam’s name and hanging on to his younger brother with all his strength. Sam cursed, breathing hotly against Dean’s ear, and then Dean felt the rush of wetness warming his thigh. 

Things like the harsh press of the rock into the small of his back, the way his skin burned from the abrasion of the dirt entered into his consciousness. With the return of the pain, so too echoed the harsh note of reality. 

Jesus Christ. Could he—had he—how was he—

**“Hey, I’ve found them!”**

Sam made a choking sound. 

Dean leaned away from him. “I’m telling them you pissed on us both.” 

*

For two weeks, wherever they went they wound up in compromising situations. When they got sent to bring the handsaw and the electric drill set from the tool shed the light bulb exploded and the door jammed. It was nearly two hours before they were noticed to be missing. Then Dean’s wrist cuff got caught on the buckle of Sam’s belt when they were working together to put up the latest cabin. Sam had to unlace his belt to extricate himself. 

They had to crawl out the window when a surveillance job went bad and Sam landed face first into Dean’s crotch. By then they’d wised up and there was no more coming on each other or inappropriate hard-ons. Or really it was just too hard to maintain an erection when Dean’s nuts were bruised blue.

“There's...something going on,” Dean wheezed as he crawled off towards the car. “A curse or something.” 

Sam winced and got to his feet. “The ‘let’s make brothers fuck’ curse?”

Dean finally stood up, hand protectively covering his groin. “Sammy, I didn’t know you knew such language.” 

“Shut up,” Sam replied without heat. “We’d better figure out how to break it, before—” 

“Ahem!” Dean interrupted pointedly before he could finish that horrifying sentence. “Yes, before.” 

*

Dean was insanely pretty for a boy. He’d been hearing as much his entire life from classmates to waitresses in diners, to hunters, to weird creepy men in trench coats. Being called pretty was an instant dick softener and since the women Dean picked up invariably mentioned it, be it self-consciously or mid-coitus Dean had to keep a staple of tried and true things that made him hot to run through his head on these moments. 

Sam’s hand wrapped tight around his dick was quickly becoming one of those things. He was so hard he wasn’t sure he’d be able to come, he’d just be stuck here in limbo while Sam jerked him off and pressed him harder into the wall with his body. Forever. Dean could deal with that. 

Sam was whispering against his throat and none of it was about being pretty, like Sam had some sort of sixth sense for how that grossed Dean out. Or maybe he was just too busy bitching. “I have lost my mind, completely and totally. It’s gone. Should never have gone on this fucking trip.” 

Dean would be inclined to agree if he wasn’t five steps from coming. He was so close he couldn’t quite breathe. Sam’s fingers were tight, punishing almost, but the sweep of his thumb over the head of his cock was sweet. 

“Sam, shut up, I’m trying to come.” He ducked his head and pressed his mouth to Sam’s to silence him. Sam choked and put up a token struggle before parting his lips. When their tongues flicked together Dean cried out right into Sam’s mouth and came all over Sam’s hand. 

Sam tore himself away. “Oh, gross, some warning please!” His mouth was swollen and his cheeks looked hot to the touch. Dean pounced on him, fingers buried deep in Sam’s hair so he could control the kiss to his satisfaction. Sam tumbled back against the opposite wall, and Dean knew he should stop, he really did. 

This kissing business brought it to a whole new level. Whatever had gone before might have been written off as life in the trenches and a helping hand between buddies. This kissing thing was romantic and shit. Or well, possibly not, because it was motivated purely from Dean’s own hedonism and there was jizz all over Sam’s hand. 

Sam let him, probably because he got his fingers worked past Sam’s waistband and started drawing him off real slow, just this side of tortuous. Sam’s dick felt a lot like his own. They were related after all. Ew, bleh, yuck, that was not joining the list of fool proof methods to make Dean hard. He focused on Sam’s lips against his own, spit slick and messy. 

Dean’s wrist was getting tired by the time Sam finally orgasmed, but Sam continued kissing him, arms belted around Dean’s waist for support. “Well, fuck me!” Sam said, pulling back. 

“Could do.” 

“No, not like that!” Sam cried, he shoved away from Dean. “We really suck at breaking the curse on our own.” He paused and looked down his own shoulder “Jesus, Dean, you really clawed up my back.”

Dean cleared his throat and sat back down at the table strewn with books. They were probably really lucky that nobody went to the study rooms at the back of the library. 

*

They rehearsed before they went in to talk to the adults. No mentioning the bathtub. Or the kissing—well, obviously. They’d already tried exorcisms and god only knew if John heard the truth he’d drag them through the whole rigmarole all over again, and then when nothing happened, flay Dean alive. 

“So, Sam and me, we’re cursed,” Dean started after dinner. Dad set the gun he was polishing down with a thunk and Cara looked up intrigued from her copy of Seventeen. 

“Like a bad luck curse, or something,” Sam offered. “We keep having all of these accidents—the uh—the mine shaft was only the first.” 

“Yeah, I mean, Sam wet himself, Dad,” Dean interjected, voice grave. 

Sam glared at Dean out of the corner of his eyes, but it was not like he could come clean about the truth. “And then there was the disaster with the cabin and the toolshed, and then that reconnaissance op you sent us on—uh—Dean nearly got castrated.” 

Dad sighed. “Well, alright.” 

They spent the second to last day of Sam’s spring break being covered in vervain and chanted over. Hank and Annie knew an Ohlone spiritualist and after nearly six hours of being poked and prodded in unmentionable places and rubbed with smelly substances she declared they were curse free. No curse could survive the treatment they’d just received. 

*

But…she was wrong or lying, because when they went out for a walk on the last day, heading towards Mt. Shasta, the curse chose to reassert itself. Sam was just staring in awe at the snow-capped mountain and Dean looked over at him and it devolved from there. 

Next thing he knew Sam was flat on his back, dick tugged out of his boxers while Dean sucked and licked at the head. “Oh God, what do I do?” Sam moaned. 

Dean pulled off and wrapped a hand around the base of Sam’s dick. “I’m doing all the work here, pal.” 

“No,” Sam replied, drawing the syllable out. “Are you physically incapable of thinking about anything but sex? About the curse, idiot!” 

Dean attempted to say “We’ll deal with that later” around a mouthful of cock, but was mostly unsuccessful. He laid a forearm across Sam’s hips in case he got any ideas and went to town. Sam’s thighs tensed spasmodically under his weight, and he nearly started sobbing when Dean fluttered his tongue against the head. 

Dean dug his fingers into Sam’s hips, hoping that when Sam returned to school all the assholes on the soccer team would see them. Sam’s head was tipped so far back Dean could only see the long column of his throat and his chin. Dean was, without peer or equal, the master. 

“They should lock me up for wanting this,” Sam whispered after he came. 

“Yeah probably, but then I’d be right there with you, and that probably wouldn’t do us much good.” Dean wiped off his mouth. 

Sam laughed and looked up at the sky. “I guess we should go back and say the spiritualist failed.” 

This curse was some powerful stuff, because Dean had never wanted to suck dick in his life, he really never wanted to do it again, but then he looked down at Sam’s face, and the idea was taking hold in the back of his mind all over again. At least they weren’t going spontaneously gay for everybody with a Y chromosome. That would be really embarrassing. Er, not that this wasn’t already. 

*

‘I grabbed Sam and forced him to submit to a blowjob’ became “Yeah, Sam and I nearly plunged to our deaths attempting to hike up Mt. Shasta.” 

Sam shrugged. “The curse is definitely unbroken.” 

Dad sighed and started paging through his journal for other options. Annie made a strange face and hurriedly left the living room. She came back with this weird glass-eyed headdress straight out of a horror film over her face and stared at them through the eyeholes. 

“What is it, Annie?” John asked. 

Annie pulled off the headdress. “Hummingbird clearly nullified the curse.” She held up the headdress. “The mask would allow us to see whatever curse was on them, and there’s nothing there. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it to begin with.” 

John raised his brows. “Looks like you boys were just being stupid and careless up there.” 

Dean’s eyes widened and he ran into the kitchen. Sam found him gargling salt water over the sink. He was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes. “You willingly put a dick in your mouth.” 

Dean spat the solution out. “Shut up! They’ll hear you.” 

Sam laughed harder. “The great Dean Winchester.” 

“DON’T YOU GET IT? THIS MEANS THERE NEVER WAS A CURSE!” Dean shouted. 

Sam wrapped his arms around Dean’s waist and pressed his cheek to the back of Dean’s neck. “I kind of always thought so.” 

Dean sighed and leaned back into Sam. “I hate you.” 

“Apparently not.” Sam started laughing again. They missed the kitchen door swinging open. 

“Aww, aren’t you sweet!” Cara giggled and Dean screamed in surprise. She went to the fridge and pulled out a soda before leaving them again. 

“I revise that statement, I have saved up all my hatred in the world for her,” Dean said into Sam’s shoulder. Sam shook his head and got two more sodas from the fridge, tossing Dean his. Dean looked down at the can in his hand and then back up at Sam.“Thanks, man, it’s going to explode now. Or were you thinking you were going to lick it off?” 

“I can honestly say my thoughts extended merely to drinking this Coke,” Sam replied. 

“You have no sex drive, loser.” Dean heaved a put-upon sigh. 

“Sam, Dean, get your stuff together, we’re leaving!” Dad called from the hallway. 

Sam went out the door first, casting a “Cocksucker” over his shoulder with a saucy grin. 

If Dad later wondered why his youngest son sported a black eye with such good humor he never mentioned it.


End file.
